


Jargon

by werewolve



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempt at Humor, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Essentially it's a slight alteration that puts the book version of the devil story into the show, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, If only for the fact that this is a strange combination of the books and the show, It's all just a bit of fun and games, M/M, Other, The Edge of the World, The Last Wish (The Witcher), if you want to call it love right out, with love thrown in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolve/pseuds/werewolve
Summary: 'Those were the days,' muttered the witcher. 'Thank you, Grandma. And now show us where it speaks of the devil and what the book says about devils. This time 'tis grateful I'd be to heareth more, for to learn the ways and meanes ye did use to deal with him most curious am I.''Careful, Geralt,' chuckled Dandilion, 'You're starting to fall into their jargon. It's an infectious mannerism.'...'And who told you to give him so many?' Dandilion was enraged. 'It stands written in the book, one fistful to take. Yet ye gaveth of balls a sackful! Ye furnished him with ammunition for two years, the fools ye be!''Careful,' smiled the witcher. 'You're starting to fall into their jargon. It's infectious.''Thank you.'
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	Jargon

**Author's Note:**

> In essence, here's a fic based on those two canon- yes, canon- interactions from the books that happen within the Edge of the World arc and have become one of my favourite sets of quotes from the whole of The Last Wish.

Jaskier and Geralt were, perhaps, a few too many drinks in by the time they had returned to and settled at the base of the old oak tree. Their mounts tied and bedrolls strategically placed as usual; Geralt lay along his, whilst Jaskier positioned himself against a log and hugged his lute to his chest as though it were an old lover.

‘Do you remem-’ A hiccup. ‘Do you remember, Geralt…’

‘Hm?’ 

‘Do you remember Lower Posada?’ Jaskier dropped a hand along the strings of his instrument, and despite his not at all being careful, nothing but a sweet note came out, ‘With Nettly?’

‘And Lille,’ Geralt gave a nod; though it was more a strange roll of his head to look over at the intoxicated troubadour at his side, ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

Another hiccup broke Jaskier’s idle strumming, and he laughed, ‘Remember the accents?’

Geralt had to think for a moment- to focus his mind back through the decades in order to hunt for the memory. Of course, he’d never forgotten it, how could he when it- in its isolation- was one of his favourite memories. The problem was that of the cloud of alcohol his mutations did little to fight off. He groaned, stretched to arch his back off the ground, and hummed again. Jaskier took this with offence.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, dear witcher!’ 

‘I haven’t, I haven’t, just-’ And all at once it hit him. The moment came back to him as though it were just yesterday. Perhaps it was for Jaskier’s teasing that he finally remembered, but no matter, he knew exactly how to react now, as he held back the smile that threatened his features, ‘I’d surely be grateful if ye’d giveth me a moment to recollect the meanes.’ 

Jaskier, silent and awed for only a moment, broke quickly into a bout of hearty laughter, moving his lute to one side to press a hand to his stomach in his amusement, ‘Dear gods, that was awful. You’re absolutely awful.’ 

Geralt, having been rather pleased at his forced attempt at the accent he’d once so naturally slipped into, creased his brows and turned his head once more to Jaskier- craning his neck so to see him better, ‘Oh, really? How about you try then?’

‘Ahem, fine.’ Jaskier pounded his chest lightly twice with a closed fist, as though preparing for an important proclamation, and then- muffling another laugh- began. ‘Ye knowest nothing witchman. Of all the times we be travelling ye never once did read no booke.’

The accent was, as it should have been with Jaskier’s talents, rather brilliant. Almost exactly on the nose if not for the twang of his normal accent bleeding through from the alcohol. Geralt, recognising that the comedy covered a feigned insult, himself feigned offence- drawing up a hand to his heart and looking utterly hurt by the statement. The bard threw back his head to laugh again and Geralt threw out his hand to hit his shin with his knuckles.

Therein it was Jaskier’s turn to feign hurt, covering the afflicted area with his palm and putting on his signature pout for the play. Geralt pushed himself to sit, watching as the troubadour acted out his newest performance- that of a puppy dog in need of attention. He wasn’t sure what factor in the situation led him to act as he did, a few came to mind: (1) the alcohol still heavy in his blood, (2) the nostalgia of simpler times brought on by the memories and jokes, (3) the look on Jaskier’s face, or perhaps, (4) the great terrible thing within him that had been wanting to do something like this for quite some time. 

The bard and the witcher had, for as long as time had been forgiving, been the closest of friends. Most who knew them thought their companionship to be strange at the least and in rare times horrifyingly co-dependent at the most. If not for Jaskier, there were many occasions in which the witcher would have acted irrationally and hurt either himself or somebody else. If not for Geralt, well to put it simply Jaskier likely wouldn’t even be alive- but perhaps his own statement said that of himself, too. They were a terrible, and yet terribly well matched, pair. They learned from one another and in doing so both became better people for it, even if to everybody else they looked no different. If Nenneke had ever had her way, Jaskier would have probably been flogged for some of what he ‘taught’ Geralt, but then Nenneke likely would have had them both on the stand for all Geralt had dragged Jaskier in to, too. 

Jaskier was all mind and Geralt all body. Together they almost made a normal human. Almost. Their strange habits and beings were also too well matched to cancel eachother out and therefore would be retained in the merge. 

Jaskier was all bark and Geralt all bite. Their mouths often got them into a lot of trouble, so it was a wonder when they were occupied with anything other than wit and fight. Geralt often found himself despising Jaskier’s for instance- when he couldn’t, for even two seconds, shut up. Though, Geralt also found himself enthralled by the curl of the bard’s lips whenever he smiled. 

He wasn’t sure what factor in the situation led him to act as he did, if he was sure of anything he’d call it a combination of all four. Plus a fifth factor. A desire to match that curl with his own. 

The kiss was tender; their cheeks warmed achingly by the fire beside them and their hands fumbling in the dark for a place to rest. It was also awkward and at times misplaced, for once Geralt gave over power to allow the bard to lead him. Kissing was Jaskier’s language, one he was fluent in, and one which to Geralt did not come as naturally. Still, he felt that curl as he’d always imagined it, and Jaskier broke their touch only briefly to speak.

‘Careful,’ smiled the bard, ‘You’re starting to fall into my jargon. It’s an infectious mannerism.’


End file.
